Evergreen

by Marissa Doyle

  A sick feeling made her throat close up. She noticed that she still held his arm and snatched it away as if he were made of fire. Kindly, courteous Mr. Rookwood, whom she’d felt so comfortable and safe with, was a—a…

  “I know what you are thinking,” he said. “I am not a murderer. I hold no opinion or rancor. I merely do what I am hired to do. That is all.”

  “But—”

  “Do you remember not long ago how we talked about black and white and gray? In my world, there is no black and white. The world is full of judges, as you may have begun to notice, but there is a strange thing about them: one man’s black is another man’s white. I choose to see neither, Miss Boisvert. I see all gray.”

  Her breath was starting to come in gasps. She bent, hands on thighs, and fought to control it, all the while feeling his sympathetic gaze on her…and that was the worst part—that he did feel sorry for her. He was a pleasant, courtly gentleman who also happened to be a cold-blooded assassin-for-hire. And with his magical abilities, a very successful one…except—

  “But it didn’t work, did it?” she said, straightening and looking at him defiantly. “The president is still alive and is getting better. The colonel said so.”

  “The colonel is mistaken. His wound is not survivable. I expect that he will be dead by this time tomorrow if not sooner. Which still leaves the second part of my commission.”

  “The second part—?”

  “I believe I already mentioned that there were two parts to our present commission. The president is dead, or will be soon. That leaves the vice-president.” He watched her for a moment, as if to guess what her reaction would be. “I have a dozen Shadows caught in a web above us—they’re what you felt when you tried to move the rain. When the moment is right, they’ll be released…and their release will blow Colonel Roosevelt off the top of Mount Marcy. It will be a tragic accident, nothing more.”

  Grace gasped. “Does Kit know what you’re doing?” But she knew the answer before he opened his mouth. She remembered how Kit had avoided shaking Colonel Roosevelt’s hand and kept his eyes averted from him. Kit knew.

  “Kit was a great help. He laid the groundwork for us by befriending Miss Roosevelt in Newport in order to gain access to the family, though I feel he could have managed her with somewhat more delicacy.” Mr. Rookwood shook his head. “It was his first assignment, so a degree of fumbling was understandable, if regrettable. Now, may we go on? Time is not in long supply today.”

  She let him propel her along, her thoughts racing. Kit had told the truth—he had been compelled to pretend to fall for Alice. And he had warned her that something was going to happen…and that he was not a part of it. Mr. Rookwood obviously did not know that Kit had changed his mind about helping to murder poor Colonel Roosevelt…and she would not tell him, since she would not be part of it either. How could Mr. Rookwood do such terrible things? It was difficult to believe, no matter what she’d heard from his own lips.

  “We’re nearly back to the cabins.” Mr. Rookwood’s voice broke into her thoughts. “It will be necessary for John and me to return to the mountain quickly. I trust you’ll be coming with us?”

  “What if I say no?”

  “Then I will be forced to lock you and Miss Roosevelt up for a few hours while we complete our commission. After that? I am not sure. I will have to discuss the matter with Kit and John. I had assumed your response would be something other than I suspect it might be.” There was a slight questioning inflection to the end of his sentence.

  “My answer is no,” she said firmly.

  “I see.” He sighed. “I like you, Miss Boisvert. Believe me when I say that the offer to join us was not made lightly on my part…or on Kit’s,” he added.

  A few minutes later they came to the cabins. There was no sign of anyone but Alice and John Rookwood; Mrs. Roosevelt and the children must have already started back to the club. John Rookwood looked questioningly at Mr. Rookwood, who shook his head. He laughed harshly.

  “Another task your son botched,” he said. “You should have left her to me. I’d have had her properly in hand.”

  Grace froze. What had he just said about Kit?

  “Enough, John.” Mr. Rookwood sounded distinctly irritated this time. “Ladies, you will oblige us by going into one of the cabins.”

  Alice seemed to have woken up from the spell of docility Mr. Rookwood had cast on her. “I should like to know what is going on here, Mr. Rookwood. Your brother has been excessively rude and will not permit me to go anywhere nor tell me anything.”

  “My apologies, Miss Roosevelt. Will you kindly enter a cabin?” His voice was as mild as ever, but that commanding edge was back in it.

  Alice stilled. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll want Miss Boisvert to keep you company, I expect.”

  “Yes.” Alice reached for her. Grace lunged to avoid her, but Alice grabbed her arm and began to pull her inexorably toward the cabin.

  “Alice, wake up! Don’t listen to him!” Grace tried to squirm out of her grasp. She had to get away from them—had to warn Colonel Roosevelt—

  “Please do not resist, Miss Boisvert,” Mr. Rookwood said quietly. “I do not think either of us would like to see this become…unpleasant.”

  “Alice!” She let herself go limp, hoping to break her grip. But Alice didn’t even blink, and dragged her bodily into the cabin. The door closed behind them with a dull thunk, leaving them in gloom relieved only by the small blocks of light where the chinking between the walls’ logs had fallen out.

  “All right, we’re in here! Let me go!” Grace fought to free herself until Alice stirred and seemed to waken.

  “Wha—what are we doing in here?” She frowned at Grace. “Why are you lying on the ground? You’re all muddy!”

  Grace scrambled to her feet and went to the door. It wouldn’t budge. She tried to push the latch-bar up, but it might as well have been glued in place.

  “What is going on here?” Alice demanded.

  “We’re being kept out of the way.” Grace suddenly remembered that Colonel Roosevelt was not only the vice-president but also Alice’s father. She sat down wearily on one of the bunks. “I ruined it. I should have said that I would join them and then maybe I could have found a way to stop them, but I didn’t think of it till just now—”

  Alice sat down, not too near her, on the bunk. “Stop who from doing what?”

  Grace opened her mouth to reply and quickly closed it. What could she say that Alice would understand…or believe? She had to say something… “The Rookwoods—they’re not good people—”

  Alice gave a bitter little laugh. “I already knew that. About one of them, anyway.”

  “I’m talking about Mr. Rookwood and his brother.” She took a steadying breath. “They’re…assassins. They arranged to have President McKinley shot and are going after your father next, right now. They…uh…they’re going to try to push him off the top of the mountain and make it look like an accident. That’s why they locked us in here. We’ve got to get out and stop them.” She went to the door and gave it another experimental push. It didn’t budge.

  Alice rose too and paced back and forth—which was all of about five steps in the cramped cabin. “I don’t believe it,” she said.

  “It’s true. Do you think I’d make such a thing up?”

  “I don’t know anything anymore. For example, I thought you were my friend—” She turned away. “How do I know you’re not making it up? You seemed awfully friendly with Mr. Rookwood.”

  Grace closed her eyes. Yes, she had been. That’s why it hurt so much. “He lied to me. You’re not going to like this, but Kit… His father told him to—to make up to you back in Newport. It was a way for them to try to get to your father—”

  “Shut up!” Alice whirled around and gave her a shove. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

  “Alice—”

  “You lie. Everything is a lie.” She dropped to the cabin floor and drew her knees to h
er chest, sobbing brokenly against them.

  Oh, Alice. Grace bent toward her but didn’t dare touch her. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you that, but the Rookwoods— You have to know how bad they are. They really do plan to kill your father, and you’ve got to help me figure out how to get out of here so we can stop them.” She hesitated. “We’re the Trouble Twins, remember? We can do it.”

  Alice only sobbed more loudly. Grace stared down at her shaking shoulders, and despair washed over her. Alice would not—or could not—help her. She would be stuck here while the Rookwoods let the Shadows loose on Colonel Roosevelt. All her life, she’d have to live with the knowledge of her failure.

  And something else troubled her, something that she couldn’t stop hearing and re-hearing in her mind’s ear: John Rookwood’s voice saying Another task your son has botched. Had Kit been playing her too, just like he’d played Alice, because his father had told him to?

  Kit had warned her about this very thing. Why should she believe anything John Rookwood said, especially about Kit, whom he seemed to dislike so much?

  But the only time the ever-serene Mr. Rookwood had come close to losing his temper was when John Rookwood had said that. Was it because Kit had “botched” ensnaring her or because John Rookwood had said something about it in front of her? Neither alternative offered any comfort. Which should she trust—Kit’s word, or what she had seen?

  “Kit…he never did love me… H-he played me like a piano, and I f-fell for every minute of it,” Alice suddenly said through her sobs.

  The eerie echo of her own thoughts startled Grace—and filled her with resolve. They had to get out of here, not only to save Colonel Roosevelt but to confront Kit. “Never mind him,” she said and this time put her hand on Alice’s shoulder. “Help me figure out how to get out of here. Your father, Alice. We have to help him.”

  Alice looked up at her through her tears. “You— You’re serious? They’re going to try to kill him?”

  Grace restrained her impatience. “Yes, if we don’t do something about it.” She didn’t try the door again; Mr. Rookwood had obviously sealed it with some powerful magic she had no chance of breaking. That left the log walls, the rough plank floor, and the roof, also of rough planks.

  The logs were beyond her power to affect; dead wood was dead, even to a dryad. The floor was impenetrable. But the roof… If she lay on one of the top bunks, could she kick at the roof and loosen the planks? She climbed up into one; her toes barely brushed the roof’s underside. Bother!

  She rolled onto her side and thought for a moment, then started picking at the chinking between the logs. Whoever next slept in this bunk would curse her for letting a draft in, but she had to see—how close were the nearest trees? Did any have branches close enough to the cabin that might be able to help?

  But the clearing around the cabins was too wide. Grace checked each side, but no tree was close enough to help unless it fell on the cabin—which was not a viable solution to their dilemma. Which just left— “Help! We’re trapped!” she called out the crack.

  “Don’t do that! What if the Rookwoods come back?” Alice had risen and was staring at her.

  “If the Rookwoods come back here, it means they won’t be up on the mountain trying to kill your father. And maybe your mother and Mr. Dimock aren’t so far away yet that they won’t hear us.”

  “Oh.” Alice crouched against the wall where there was an open chink. “Halloooo! Help!”

  They moved from side to side of the cabin, calling from each direction. It felt futile, but Grace had to do something. And once or twice, while Alice called hello!, she herself called crow! She had no idea where Crow might be or if he would respond to her call, but it was worth a try.

  They continued calling. Grace’s voice started to give out but Alice’s continued strong…until something thumped above them, followed by a scratching, scrabbling sound on the roof.

  “What was that?” Alice whispered.

  The scratching sound continued, and suddenly Grace felt a change in the air around them. She drew in her breath; the room was growing lighter. The cabin door was slowly opening.

  “Grace, the door!” Alice was up on her knees.

  Grace took a step toward it. Had Mr. Rookwood’s spell failed? She couldn’t believe that… Or was this a trap, and John Rookwood was standing just outside, ready to smother her with a silk scarf and drop her body off a steep part of the path?

  Alice had no such concerns. She was out the door before Grace could warn her to be careful. “Hey!” she heard her call. “Anyone there?”

  Grace tentatively followed her out. The rain had slowed again to a fine drizzle, but the fog was thicker than ever. There was no one in the clearing. Alice stuck her head in the door of the other cabin. “No one’s here,” she said wonderingly.

  A loud cra-a-a-awk! made them both jump. A large black bird was perched on the ridgeline of the cabin above them. It watched them for a few seconds then flew up into a nearby tree where it could be barely seen through the mist and cawed again.

  “Crow,” Grace breathed. So he had heard her! Not only that; he’d managed to open the door. Mr. Rookwood had been right—the Changer was her friend.

  “Yes, it’s a crow,” Alice said impatiently. “Hey, where are you going?”

  Grace was already ten paces up the trail to Mount Marcy. “To try to save your father.”

  * * *

  It was plain before they’d gone half a mile—to more or less the same place where they’d met the Rookwoods, Grace couldn’t help noticing—that Alice was slowing them down. Her sprained ankle, overused yesterday, would not permit her to go at more than ambling speed.

  They both stopped, though neither had said anything. Alice spoke first. “I don’t know what I could do to help anyway. You at least have two working legs.”

  It was not a time to say anything but the truth. “I don’t know if I have any chance either. But I have to try.”

  Alice nodded. “I… Thank you.” Her face took on a slightly pinched look, as if she were trying not to cry. “It’s not fair. He’s my father. I should be the one to save him. That’s something else you get to have that I don’t.”

  Grace bowed her head, because there was nothing to say to that. “I should get going,” she said eventually.

  “Yes.”

  They looked at each other. “Good luck,” Alice whispered fiercely, then turned away.

  “Can you find your way back to the cabins in this fog?” Grace called after her.

  “I think I know the way by now. I—I’ll wait for you there until…until it’s time to go.”

  Grace nodded. They exchanged one more look, and then both turned and set out on their separate paths.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was a few minutes before Grace realized that Crow had come with her. She could just see his dark shape through the mist, flitting from tree to tree as if he were showing her the way—which, she soon realized, he was. They had left the trail, marked by recent boot prints (the colonel’s, or the Rookwoods’?) and gone straight into the trees, which grew shorter and tougher and scrubbier as she climbed. She assumed it was a quicker route up the mountain though it certainly wasn’t an easy one, clambering past boulders and skirting ravines and pulling herself up steep slopes slippery with wet leaves. The rain waxed and waned and waxed again, and the mist swirled, growing colder as she ascended. Thank Yggdrasil that Crow seemed to know where he was going; though dryads had excellent senses of direction, she wasn’t sure that she would have been able to find her way through this wilderness on a day like this.

  Curiously, Crow would not speak to her. Granted, he was usually on the wing, and she imagined that talking while flying might not be an easy thing to do. But the times she spoke to him while he perched in trees, waiting for her, he only cocked his head at her, then flew on.

  “Cat got your tongue?” she finally said as she rested for a moment after scrambling through a boulder field. “Why
can’t you turn into a mountain goat and carry me the rest of the way?”

  He made a chuckling sound and flew to another tree, leading her onward. All she could do was hope that he wouldn’t lead her into crossing paths with the Rookwoods…at least not before she was ready for them. Because she was going to have to confront them or the Shadows they’d gathered in the very near future.

  She could feel the presence of the Shadows more plainly now, infuriated at their confinement. The sky above her crackled with energy like an approaching thunderstorm compressed into a small space. Did the colonel not feel it hanging above the mountain, or Mr. LaCasse—

  A sick feeling flooded her. It wasn’t only the colonel who was in danger. It was Mr. LaCasse. The Robinson boys and Mr. McNaughton. Ted. All of them might be blown from the mountain when the Rookwoods loosed the Shadows—a blast of cold wind, like the one she’d felt in the woods but multiplied twelve-fold, would strike them as they stood on Marcy’s summit and sweep them away. Freak winds happened in places like this; it would be a terrible tragedy, especially in the wake of President McKinley’s death, but it would be a comprehensible one.

  So her task was straightforward enough—free the Shadows if she could, and at the same time keep them away from Colonel Roosevelt and the others. Straightforward…and all but impossible.

  “Wait, Crow,” she called, and stopped to reach out to touch the branches of the scrubby balsams around her, most of them no taller than she was. Their fresh, sharp scent was muted here, as if it was too precious a commodity to waste in releasing to the air. “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

  A ripple of surprise went through them. You are the man who speaks to trees, one of them said.

  It is Grace Tree-Cousin, said another. Our kin down below, where the water lives in lakes, have spoken of you. You are far from your sleeping place.

  Grace thought of the balsam in her hollow; no other tree in Tahawus had learned her name. “I’m chasing the Shadows. I have to stop them.”